


waves

by dropofrum (95echelon)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (is this how you write PWPs. asking for a friend.), Aged-Up Character(s), Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst and Porn, COME @ ME HOE, F/M, LOOK I JUST NEEDED AN EXCUSE TO WRITE PORN
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-02-19 00:45:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13112181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/95echelon/pseuds/dropofrum
Summary: There was just enough Stark in him, to want her for her cunt, and just enough Targaryen, to want her for her blood.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *insert standard omegaverse warnings here*

 

It was a delicate balance of events that destroyed Sansa Stark's life. 

She had been hoping she would present as an omega, hoping and praying and almost _mad_ for it, because no one was _ever_ quite valued as a pretty, highborn omega. All the maidens of the best songs - Jenny of the Oldstones, and Jonquil, and even Princess Naerys - they had _all_ been omegas, each of them, the siren song of their essence calling out to their alphas. It was what had made them so desperately, eagerly sought out, what made their love flare so brightly it imprinted itself upon history's pages. 

But her thirteenth nameday had come and passed, and then her fourteenth, and her fifteenth, and she was rapidly closing in on her sixteenth with nothing to show for it, despondent but outwardly cheerful, horrified that someone would discover how _desperately_ she had wanted to be anything but a boring old beta, and feeling like the worst sort of traitor at that thought, for Mother was a beta - and look at her. The eldest daughter of the Lord of the Riverlands, good-sister to the Hand of the King, Lady Consort of Winterfell, wife to the Warden of the North.

And so Sansa tried to remind herself, furiously, that it was perfectly _fine_ that she was a beta. She had to make her peace with it, before the bitterness of it consumed her whole.

* * *

 

 

Robb presented, as most boys did at fifteen, as an alpha, to joy (and muted relief) - for while Stark men were often alphas, the Tullys were just as likely to produce betas, which wasn't _precisely_ a problem except...

Well, it rather _was_ , a bit. 

Men could be _completely_ ridiculous about following betas - or, heavens forfend, _omegas_ \- into battle, and the heir being an alpha had everyone releasing a breath they hadn't known they'd held all this while.

Jon's presentation was a surprise, following only moons later - alpha, too. Mother barely spoke, all through that week, and the dark shadows under Lord Stark's eyes grew so pronounced they had begun to look like bruises. Meanwhile, the hunch of Jon's shoulders became painfully concave, dark eyes turning flat and dead, so much so that Sansa feared he'd simply disappear into himself. 

"Go," she prodded Arya softly. 

"What?" Arya snapped. 

"Go talk to him," she urged, never taking her eyes off Jon, where he was whacking a straw dummy in the training yard with a wooden sword without even any pretense of finesse. "Tell him this isn't his fault. He listens to you."

"Why d'you care? Arya asked, eyes narrowed in suspicion, and Sansa shrugged uncomfortably. 

Why _did_ she care? He was barely her brother.

Barely even family to her. 

And simply the fact of his existence _hurt_ Mother, reminded her that Papa might once have loved another. Why did she _care?_ What would Mother think, if she found out, that even Sansa, even her favourite, had taken Jon _Snow's_ side over Catelyn _Stark's?_

"Fine," Sansa snapped back, hackles rising in defense, as guilt slugged uncomfortably through her insides. "I thought you _cared_ about him," she sneered, "but if you don't want to, _don't_ ," before stomping back into the Great Keep.

* * *

 

 

It was only several hours later that she peeked into the courtyard and saw Jon laughing, practically doubled over and clutching his stomach, while Arya ineffectually poked at him with a wooden sword, a look of pure _murder_ on her little face. 

Sansa hid a smile, and ducked back into the shadows before she could be seen, but she was, in some small part of her, certain that a pair of grey eyes had followed her back all the way into the darkness. 

* * *

 

 

In theory, Sansa would've been safe, even had she presented as omega, in a keep surrounded by her own blood. Theon was a beta of course, and while the scent of her would've been sweet, it wouldn't have sent him into a rut, and though Papa and Robb and even Jon were alphas, they were family. 

Blood. 

Her scent would never lure someone so closely related to her, and she wouldn't want _them_ either, not even in the deepest ravages of estrus - that wasn't how mating bonds _worked_ , for heaven's sake. Not unless you were a Targaryen and your bonds had been all fouled up and twisted from centuries of inbreeding and rampant incest. 

In theory of course, Sansa would've been safe. 

* * *

 

 

It starts, like most things in the Stark household, with a roaring bloody fight. 

By the time Sansa gets into it, everyone's completely forgotten what it was about, Jon is holding back Arya from ripping Bran's _face_ off with her bare hands and Robb's trying to stop Theon from goading his siblings into _murder._ He's having very little success. 

Rickon's in the corner, bawling his eyes out, clutching at a rather distressed-looking Shaggydog.

Rickon doesn't enjoy conflict.   
Rickon is Sansa's favourite. 

"What is going _on_ here?!"

"Bran said I couldn't beat him at swords-"  
"Arya said I was a stupid little _omega_ and I wouldn't ever be _allowed_ to be a knight-"  
"Well you _won't_ -" Arya shoots back.   
"And you think _you_ will?!" Bran retorts and it all devolves into more red-faced screaming until Jon sticks two fingers between his lips and whistles so piercingly high even Rickon hiccups in shock and quiets down. Shaggydog whimpers in protest.

"Bran," Sansa began, firmly, "stop goading your sister."

Arya grins fiercely, until Sansa turns to her and continues, "and you. Your brother hasn't presented. Even if he _was_ an omega, he could very easily be a knight if he wished to."

"No he couldn't."

" _Yes_ , he could. Unless you've completely forgotten about Loras Tyrell? And _honestly_ Arya, what's this about _you_ wanting to be a knight?"

Arya's face settles into a mulish pout. "What about it?"

"You're a daughter of the Warden of the North. You have a duty to _marry_ , to marry _well_ -"

"I don't _want_ to!"

Sansa's nostrils flare, anger bubbling hotly in her gut, and she doesn't mean to sound so harsh, truly, but that is how it comes out when she snaps, "It doesn't _matter_ what you want! You have a duty to this _House!_  We both do! To the North and its people, to protect our home and-"

"-and I can do that with a sword too!" Arya rages, and Sansa watches Robb and Theon from the corner of her eye, as they quietly scoop Bran and Rickon and scurry away like the absolute bloody cowards they are. 

"Women. Don't. Carry. Arms! You obstinate **_child!"_**

Jon cuts in coldly, then. "Yes they do."

Sansa's mouth drops open in shock as she turns to look at Jon, stood behind Arya and off to the side, arms folded mutinously over his broad chest, dark curls of hair falling over his forehead, grey eyes flashing in muted anger. 

"What?" Sansa asks feeling off-kilter and stupid. 

"Women carry arms."

"What are you _talking_ about?!"

"Maege Mormont. That Tarth girl. Oberyn Martell's daughters. Women north of the wall."

"Fishwives, _bastards_ and wildlings," Sansa says, _trembling_ with rage. "Is that what you're comparing my _sister_ to?"

Jon arches an eyebrow, so used to Sansa's barbs by now they barely seem to affect him. "I did mention Lady Brienne," he points out dryly. 

"Yes," Sansa says, stalking towards him. "Brienne the _Beauty_." she spits the last word out. " _That_ is who my sister should emulate?"

"If her lord father survived the tragic, _unbearable_ shame," he mocks in a low drawl, "of letting his only daughter wield a broadsword-"

"The lord of Evenhall and the Warden of the kingdom of the North have _vastly_ different responsibilities," Sansa sneers, "not that **_you'd_** understand."

Jon's nostrils flare at that, and Sansa hates the pleasurable hiss of satisfaction coiling low in her belly. He _doesn't_ get to stay unaffected, not when _she's_ \- not when she's so- _so_ -

"Oh I wouldn't, would I?" He levers off the wall, arms hung loosely by his side, chin dipped low to his chest. "Why?" He steps closer. "Is it because I'm baseborn, my lady? My mind's not as _agile_ as yours?" 

Closer again, so close she can feel the heat of his body pulse against her skin, rising from him in waves, like the heart of a forge. 

"Too stupid to understand, am I?"

"Jon?" Arya interrupts softly, and their eyes both go wide, a sharp inhale making their chests brush in a sudden rush of molten, gold-edged heat. He stumbles a step backwards, and so does Sansa - when... 

When had they gotten so close?

"Jon, can we go?" Arya says, still a little quiet, her eyes wide and confused, almost scared. "Please, could we just- You promised you and Robb would take me to-"

"Wintertown," Jon finishes, nodding, but his eyes are locked on Sansa's and she sees her fear reflected in his own, a peculiar electricity rushing beneath her skin, as if her whole body's stood at the eye of a storm. 

"Yeah, Arya, 'course. Come on."

His eyes flicker to her mouth, and her fingers flutter up to press against her own lips, feeling like her heartbeat is pulsing beneath the fragile skin. 

He swallows, hard, and Sansa is briefly mesmerized by the bob of his throat until he wrenches his gaze away, taking Arya's hand and stalking out of the room, covering the distance in ground-eating strides while Arya scrambles to keep up with his pace. 

* * *

 

 

Perhaps if they hadn't had that fight, and if they hadn't shared that moment, perhaps, then, none of what followed would have occurred. 

Perhaps. 

But they did, and it does, and that, perhaps, is when everything begins to spiral out of control. 

* * *

 

 

Jon feels it again, a prickling on the back of his neck, the little hairs standing on end, heartbeat quickening in something like fear. He glances over shoulder, but there's nothing there. 

Merely the people of Wintertown walking the streets, bustling about with their business, cloaks drawn against the icy winds.

Nothing. 

"Oh, what is it?" Arya snaps and Jon looks down at her upturned face, startled. 

"Huh? What?"

"You've been looking over your shoulder every _bloody_ minute for past half-hour!"

Jon blinks, eyebrows raising higher and higher with her every word. "No I haven't," he defends weakly. 

"You really have, Snow," Robb counters, with a sly twist to his lips. "Acquired a follower, have you?"

Jon frowns shaking his head. "No. It's just. Something's wrong... Can't you feel it?"

Robb cocks his head to the side. "No," he says. "What's wrong?"

"I don't... I don't know... Robb, would you be alright looking after Arya? I need to-"

Robb's frowning by now, one hand clamped firmly over Arya's bony shoulder, where she's already begun wriggling, rebellion painted across her face. "Need me to come with you?" Robb asks, and Jon feels a rush of gratitude at that. 

"No, I just..."

"Go, then," Robb says, quickly. An alpha's instincts are not a thing to be dismissed easily. "Go on. I'll look after the little brat."

"Oi!" comes the protest from below, but Jon has already turned around, stalking through the crowds and back to where his horse has been tethered, people practically throwing themselves out of his path, alpha's aura exuding from him with the jagged teeth of a beast. 

* * *

 

 

The needle slipped from her shaky fingers, as a sudden surge of wetness surged from her womb, making her slick and hot, and Sansa frowned. 

Her moonblood had come and gone not two weeks ago. This was _far_ too early!

"Are you alright, Sansa?" Jeyne asked and the room suddenly quietened to a low murmur of voices. There were a little over a dozen women, all part of Septa Mordane's little sewing circle, and gossip was increasingly scarce these days. 

"I'm fine," Sansa demurred, as a rush of heat raced down her spine, making her _throb_ , making her nipples tighten to hard peaks beneath her dress, despite the warmth of the rooms. "A little... dizzy, that's all. I think I laced too tightly this morning," she murmured to Jeyne. Every woman in the circle would be told of this story by dusk, and by the time Sansa returned, they'd have dissected exactly how many lemoncakes Sansa had had with dinner last night, if she'd been looking plumper recently, and how all this absolute _nonsense_ was going to affect her marriage proposals. 

Truly, the women in the septa's sewing circle had, in mere months, managed what a _decade_ had not - they'd shown Sansa how bloody fortunate she was to have a sister like Arya, even if Arya was truly, completely mental. 

It beat being a heinous, gossipy twat by a mile. 

"Are you going to loosen out your stays?"

Sansa nods, with a practiced blush and a smile, just as a fresh sheen of sweat erupts over brow, salty-hot, and the throbbing pulse between her legs turns to a full-blown _ache_ , making her head swim and a soft gasp escape her mouth as she sways in place, sweaty palm pressed to her belly. 

Jeyne gapes at her as Sansa fights for composure, trying to hide how badly her head's spinning, how it feels like the whole world is tilting right off its axis. She doesn't run to her rooms, Jeyne's eyes boring into her back all the while, and maintains her pace by sheer force of will and all those lessons in courtesy and decorum that've been drilled into her head since she was a child. She doesn't run away, but by the Seven... It's a close thing. 

* * *

 

 

By the time Sansa reaches the door to her chambers, her eyes are damp, her whole body flushed and thrumming, her secret place so slippery wet that her thighs have turned slick beneath her skirts. Another blazing shudder of want jolts down her spine, and Sansa finally has a name for it - _heat_. 

 _Heat_. 

She's- Oh gods, she's an _omega_. 

And she should be glad, truly, that her prayers have been granted after all these years, but as she sags against the frame of the door to her chamber, breathless, body wracked with an ache she can't imagine how to soothe, knees knocking together, her corset digging viciously into her ribs, Sansa can't help but feel anything but _violently_ , entirely lost. 

* * *

 

 

Jon lets his steed break into a gallop halfway back to the Keep, to match the pounding thud of his heartbeat, adrenaline sparking his blood like wildfire. 

When the Great Tower comes into view, Jon dismounts even before his horse has stopped, tossing away the reins and racing up the stairs, sucking in deep lungfuls of icy winter air. But there's something on the wind, something different, a scent like sugar and lightning and what Jon imagines the sea might smell like - bright and sharp, salt exploding on his tongue. 

The world seems clearer suddenly, coming into crystal definition, colours turning more vivid, saturated, as Jon races towards the scent, drunk on it, giddy and sick all at once. 

And then he sees _her_ , and just as quickly, it all falls away. 

"Sansa?" he asks, shocked at how hoarse his voice sounds, and she turns to him, still leaned against the closed door to her room. She watches him from beneath hooded eyes, her eyelashes a sweep of fire, dark tendrils of hair curling damply on her neck, the sconces silhouetting the long, elegant, gorgeous lines of her body. 

Jon feels dizzy, suddenly, blood rushing to his cock with a visceral surge. _Fuck._

"Jon," she breathes, her voice tapering off into a the thready whine, and his cock jumps in his breeches at the sound of that, at the sheen of sweat on her skin, gleaming and flushed pink, her chest rising and falling. " _Please_ ," she keens, eyes squeezing shut, her elegant hands fisting in her skirts, and it's a kind of madness that propels him forward, until he's so _close_ -

_too close-_

one hand wraps around her waist, and he's breathing her in, _scenting_ her, he realizes with a horrified shock-

"Are you- Are you in-" he stutters, unable to say it out loud, because her back is arching off the wall, and the scent of her is so thick he can't smell anything but her, and her nipples are diamond-hard beneath the thin dress, and all he wants to do is _rip_ the bloody bodice off, take her into her mouth, taste her skin, taste her tears, taste her soft, hot cunt-

" _Yes_ ," she moans, and her hands fly up, wrapping around the base of his skull, dragging his body against hers, the heat of her so palpable Jon could swear the air around them is shimmering with it. "Yes," she whispers again, right against his mouth, and Jon can't tell if she's answering the question he hasn't asked or if she's granting permission for something more. 

But then she kisses him, open-mouthed and sloppy, hungry for it, whispering, _yes, yes, yes,_ and Jon realizes he's rutting into her, hips snapping forward in sharp, quick thrusts, his cock against the apex of her thighs, his grip so cruel around her waist it _must_ hurt, it _must_ , but Sansa kisses him, delirious, in soft, heady sips, as if she wants to drink him down, and Jon groans, _harsh_ , the sound vibrating between them, the taste of her, sweet and tart and _Sansa_ , surrounding him, sinking into his bones-

"Sansa," he mutters. "Sansa, _what_ -"

There's something wrong, he knows, the knowledge of it hovering just out of reach, but as his hand cups the soft, gorgeous swell of her breast, thumb against her nipple, rolling, flicking gently through the cloth and Sansa's head drops back against the wall, shaking, trembling against him, mouth open in a silent scream, all thoughts of why this could be wrong fly out of his head. 

There is only _this_ , only _her_ , only the desperate, perfect race to see her _come_. 

There must be something sick about him, that makes him want to see a highborn girl like Sansa Stark reduced to a shaky, wanton mess for her bastard brother, for a boy named _Snow_ , but Jon wants it, wants _her_ -

"Please," she's saying again, softly, gaining volume as he toys with her, slowing down deliberately, scraping his teeth down the long alabaster column of her neck. "Jon, _oh_ \- please, _please_."

"What do you want, my lady?" Jon asks, drawl reduced to something harsher, guttural, as bright sparks erupt behind his eyelids, the placket of his breeches digging into his cock, the cords of his neck straining as her works them both into a shaking frenzy. 

"I want you to- I need you _inside_. Inside me." A tremor works its way through her, her words turning him still. "So empty," she whispers, rocking her cunt against his hard, muscled thigh, yearning, blindly seeking his mouth and making the confession against his lips. "I'm so- I need-"

"You need me to fuck you." 

There's nothing in him. Nothing. Only a great, yawning abyss, and a fire in his blood. 

"Say it," he goads, hands slipping lower to cup the swell of her arse, hands digging into soft flesh with a cruelty that is _sickening_ , that makes him feel _alive_. "Say you want me to fuck you." Vengeance, and anger, and heat, _heat_ , so lost in her there is no place she begins where he doesn't end. "Say-"

Her eyes fly open, shocked and hazy, drowning in darkness. 

 

And he comes to his senses. 


	2. Chapter 2

 

"Fuck." His hands drop away as if he's been burned, and he stumbles back, prompting a shocked exhale. "What- What-"

"Don't- Why did you stop?"

"We can't- I'm your _brother!"_

Her eyes widen, lust clearing away by some small, infinitesimal margin. "Jon..."

"I have to go."

Her eyes are bright, grief twisting her pretty face up until a tear works its way down her cheek. "Jon, _please_. Stay. Just... stay."

Jon swallows, and the urge to obey her, to heed her is so strong it's hard to move, let alone move away from her. "Go to your room."

Sansa shakes her head, mutinous, the beginnings of true rage creeping into her eyes. His nostrils flare, lust and anger and something he can't begin to define making his voice vibrate with a force he didn't know he possessed.

_" **Go** ,"_ he snarls, and she stumbles back from him, eyes blown wide with fear. "Go," he repeats, and doesn't wait for her door to fall open when he adds over his shoulder, "Bolt it behind you, Sansa," before stalking away, his blood on fire, and a sick sense of wrongness churning in his gut. 

She is his.   
She is _his_.   
The only place in the world where he belongs is behind that door.

Now. 

* * *

 

They had danced together once, some wonderful feast when the Mormonts had come visiting, Maege and her wild daughters, accompanied by the Boltons and a cadet branch of the Karstarks that lived on the very edge of the Wolfswood. It had been a lovely evening, a lavender sky shot with gold, at the very height of the northern summer, and even Lord Stark's perennially dour face had been lit by a warm smile, the sort of mischief dancing in his dark eyes that made his Lady blush and roll her eyes and silently pray that tonight wouldn't end in another babe.

(Rickon was a joy, truly, but he'd been very difficult about leaving the womb, the little brat.)

It had been a night of magic, the air golden with lamplight, and minstrels plucking their lyres, their voices cutting through the summer sweet air, ringing as clear as bells.

Sansa had been swept off her feet, Northern lords and sons approaching her for every dance, and she was flushed pink by the time they switched to the ballads, a dull, pleasant ache thrumming through her bones, coppery filaments of hair adhering to her neck, damp with perspiration. 

But then the first note of Jonquil's Wake had rung through the hall, high and piercing, and as Sansa's breath caught in her throat - for this was her _favourite_ song, her very, very favourite - a warm hand slipped down the curve of her spine, settling low on her back, and began to guide her once more onto the dancing floor. 

Her heart had been tripping in her chest, hasty and quick, as her partner turned her to face him, a warm, dark sense of comfort descending around her like a coccoon, where only she existed, she and the song, and she looked up and saw-

"Jon," she said, so soft and wondering it sounded... It wasn't one spoke to their brother, not _especially_ to a-   
 _To someone like Jon,_ she amended privately, not wanting the ugliness of his birth to mar this perfect moment. 

"May I have this dance, my lady?" he teased quietly, even as he placed her hand on his shoulder, and slipped a broad hand around her waist, the heat of him radiating through her thin silk gown, past the cotton of her shift, feeling it like brand of heat against her skin. 

Sansa giggled breathlessly, and she had no time to wonder when exactly Jon had gotten so very, very good at this sort of slow, sweet dancing, when the way his hair curled over his forehead had begun to look so soft, when his smile become so- _So._ He spun her around, again and again, until she was dizzy from it, eyes squeezed shut and grinning from ear to ear like it was her nameday come early. When he drew her back into his arms, Sansa slipped on the floor, her chest crashing into his with a soft thump, knocking the breath out of her lungs, her fingers tangling in the bristle-soft hair at his nape. 

His breath fell in warm, harsh exhales against her cheek, and his heartbeat jumped in his neck, eyes dipping down to her lips for a brief, almost imperceptible second, in a way that made her breath catch and her heartbeat quicken, a strange, hollow ache settling in parts of her body she had no name for. 

But then Sansa glimpsed Mama, frowning at them from her seat at the high table as the dancing couples moved around them, and her eyes widened, stumbling back away from Jon, her eyes itchy and her skin too hot, from this wild, bewildering urge to tear away her dress, her corset, to press her thighs together, to let the cold, night air soothe away this sudden, awful feeling gathering under her skin, to let Jon, to let him, to-

To let him _what?_  
Let him _do_ what?

She didn't know. She didn't _know._  

* * *

 

This was nothing like that dance.   
(This was _everything_ like that dance.)

* * *

 

As Sansa fell back against the bolted door of her chamber, frantically gasping to catch her breath, her senses returned to her, in slow, excruciating measure.  

Her heat was still fresh, sharp; she had not sunk into the worst of it yet, and as she stripped off her gown, impatiently tugging free the laces to her corset so she could finally _breathe_ , sanity flooded her once more, followed by a growing sense of painful embarrassment.

The things he'd _said_ \- oh, she could- she could just- 

_'You need me to fuck you.'_  The words returned with a vengeance to the forefront of her mind, as real as if he'd whispered it into her ears, and Sansa whimpered softly, knees buckling as she reached her bed, hands clamped around the edge of the mattress, neck bowed and thighs clenched tightly together, as a new throbbing set off in her core, coursing like molten honey through her veins.

_'Say it.'_

A fresh wetness slicked down her cunt, and her breasts felt heavier, swollen. Hesitantly, Sansa swept a hand over her shift, and as her palm grazed her nipple, she hissed sharply, squeezing her eyes shut at the almost _painfully_ sharp sense of heat it sent rocketing to her loins. Again, she repeated the motion, grazing her nipple with the heel of her palm, her spine arching as a low moan burst from her lips.

Oh how sweet it would be, to have him here, with her, to ease her aches-

_'Say you want me to fuck you.'_

She fell back into the mattress with a soft whump, untying the laces to her shift with shaky, trembling fingers, desperate for this strange, brilliant new feeling, slipping her hand beneath the thin linen, and testing it once more, circling the hard pucker of her nipple, goosebumps all down her arms, thighs growing slippery with slick and sweat, a fine sheen of perspiration dewing on her skin, dripping between her breasts.

With her eyes squeezed shut, she saw him, the dark, hungry glitter in his eyes, the mocking curl to his words; Jon had _enjoyed_ it, making her beg. A girl from a noble family, begging and panting for her- her _brother's_ \- her _bastard_ brother's-

His hands had been rougher, she recalled, with sudden painful clarity, harsher and quicker, more impatient, and her hands mirrored the memory of him, pinching and tugging until she was keening for it, desperate, whispering his name over and over, as she sank deeper into the fever, blood thumping in her ears. _Jon, Jon, Jon,_ like a litany, like a prayer, again and ag-

"Sansa!" came a muffled shout, from beyond her locked door, and Sansa bolted upright, fingers unconsciously curling into fists in the missed bed linens. "Sansa!" screamed the voice once more, and-

Papa. It was Papa.

"Open the door!"

_Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods_ \- Did he _know?!_

* * *

 

Jon staggered into his room, slamming the door shut and wincing at the sound, before tugging off his cloak and carelessly dropping it to the ground. His waistcoat followed, and then his tunic, a trail of clothing until he reached the narrow cot by the opposite wall, his vision pulsing and warping as his blood rushed south, hardening his cock to steel. 

Jon fell back into the ragged furs with a harsh groan, and only managed to untie the laces of his breeches and shove them down before wrapping a hand around his cock, stroking furiously. 

Everything felt different, sharper, more visceral. He paused with a grimace, spitting into his palm, before pumping recklessly, eyes screwed tight, hissing softly when he brushed the knot at the base of his cock. 

_Fuck._

Harsher now, the pleasure sharpening to a white-hot blaze, his fist moved in a quick blur, as images of **_her_** burned in his mind, blue eyes and pale skin and that fiery hair, soft, lush teats, the sweet give of her mouth, all silken voracity, and her _cunt_ \- seven _hells_ , her cunt, the way she'd grip him, burning hot, dripping for him, begging so sweetly around his cock, around his knot-

He comes in long, shuddering pulses, all over his belly, before slumping back down to the bed, wrung out and exhausted. His legs tremble faintly, but his blood is still hot, and the taste of her lingers on his tongue, the way she panted his name, all keening want and desperation, slim fingers scrabbling at his jerkin as if she wanted to tear his clothes away, his own, perfect little _whore_ -

She was _made_ for him.

And he could not have her.

He could not- Jon groaned softly, as his cock twitched once more, beginning to harden as new images overtook him, as if some incorporeal entity had decided to take control of his mind, fill him up with lurid fantasies of Sansa Stark; tied down and helpless, on her knees with her mouth on his cock, on all fours as he took her from behind, savage and ruthless, flushed with pleasure each time, and the litany of his name on her soft, lovely lips. 

His knot, not even close to deflating, began to fatten up again, sending sharp, painful tremors down his back, and Jon shuddered through another breath, and another. His cock was leaking profusely this time, so slick that he hardly needed his spit-dampened palm to ease the way. As he began fucking into his fist once more, more out compulsion than any sense of relief, he was filled by a sick sense of foreboding.

He couldn't - He _couldn't_ be going into rut, could he? Not for his own _sister?_

* * *

 

Lord Stark stepped into the room, and took one look at his eldest daughter, at her flushed skin and dark eyes, at the way her shift gaped at the throat, before averting his gaze up to her face, eyes filling with gentle sympathy.  

"Ah, Sansa," he murmured softly, reaching to cup the side of her face, and Sansa flinched as if she'd been slapped, her skin buzzing sharply at the contact. 

And, oh- _of course._ How could she have forgotten? The touch of an alpha not her own would pain her, when she was in - seven  _hells,_ in _heat_.

 

Then, Jon- Jon-

Oh _gods._

He was her alpha.

He was _hers._

 

 

Lord Stark stepped away, jaw tautening slightly, as if he was embarrassed. He favoured her with another smile, this one crooked and a little more brittle, not quite reaching his eyes, even as Sansa's glittered with unshed tears, the bright, unmarred color of cold, clear ice. "I shall- ah, I'll send for your mother, shall I? Tell me-" He paused, clearing his throat. "If there's anything you need, Sansa, anything at all, please let me know?"

_Jon,_ whispered all the yearning fragments of her body, her heart, _his hands and his kisses and his foul, awful words, the way he curled around her as if he wanted to consume her whole, Jon, please, I want Jon-_

Sansa whimpered, and choked back the words, and the last thing she saw was the troubled look in Father's eyes, before he pulled the door shut.

* * *

 

Theon skidded into Lord Stark's solar where he was shakily draining the last of his wine, all limbs and too wide eyes, breathless and a little red in the face. "My lord," he gasped, "you have to- you have to-"

Ned raised a brow, pulling together his wits despite the boy's clear urgency. " _Breathe,_ son," he said, and Theon Greyjoy obediently sucked in a deep, shuddering breath. "What is it, then?"

"It's Jon, sir," Theon said, all his syllables blurring together in a rush and Ned felt his guts turn to lead, horror racing quick-sharp in his veins. "He's- uh, you know."

"No," Ned snapped, as he rose to his feet. "I don't."

Theon peered at his boots, as the tips of his ears turned bright scarlet. "He's gone into rut," he muttered mutinously. "And he's- um."

There was a dangerous note of menace to Ned Stark's voice when he replied, "And he's _what?"_ that made Theon's neck snap upwards in shock. 

"And he's..." Theon swallowed. "He's been askin' for Sans- _Lady_ Sansa. Demanding," Theon amended quickly, scrubbing the back of his neck. "Robb's holdin' him off, but I don't know how long that's going to last- My lord? I... I don't understand. They're brother _and sister._ How is- How's any of this possible?"

"Cousins," Ned snapped off, the beginnings of a new lie beginning to gather in his mind. "They're cousins."

But he was already storming out of his solar when he said it, shouldering past Theon and towards Jon's room, and so he missed entirely the look on Theon's face, wide-eyed shock, a little confusion, a strange sort of hurt in the set of his crooked jaw.

* * *

"Mother."

Catelyn looked up, Sansa cradled in her lap as if she were a babe once more, her face buried in Lady Stark's shoulder, silent tears leaking down her nose and into her mother's dark auburn hair, as Lady Stark ran a comforting hand down her back.

Everything _hurt._ The room felt too bright, and too stifling; she wanted to press her fingers to her cunt, where she _ached,_ she wanted to frig herself dry; she wanted to weep like she was a child and hold onto her mother, she wanted, she wanted-

_Jon. She wanted Jon._

Robb was at the door, his hair a fright, his clothes all askew and thick with dust. There was a bleak, hard look in his eyes, and Catelyn tensed.

"Yes?" she asked, softly, instinctively tightening her arms around Sansa, as if she could protect her daughter simply by the force of a mother's love. "What is it, Robb?"

His mouth twisted, as if in revulsion, before he said, "You need to leave. Now."

"I beg your pardon?" Catelyn snapped, drawing back ever so slightly, at the harsh, guttural tone of his words, the faint colour rising to his face as he spoke. 

"Jon's gone into rut." He paused, nostrils flaring. "For _Sansa."_

His eyes flickered to his sister, her face hidden away from him, but there was something like disgust in his eyes that had never been there before. "Father's given his blessing. They'll be here in a minute. Apparently... There's things about Jon he didn't see fit to _mention_ before."

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GAH WHAT THE FUCK PEOPLE ARE READING THIS?!??!!?


	3. Chapter 3

_"Sansa,"_ Jon whispered, the fight leaching out of him as he took her in, shoulders dropping, his eyes so dark she thought she could drown in them. 

Papa's hand was still firm on his shoulder where they stood in the doorway to Sansa's chamber, his grip tight enough that his knuckles had gone white. He leaned down, just enough that his lips were level with Jon's ear, and muttered, "You mate my daughter, and there won't be enough of you left to _bury._ Understand?" 

His eyes widened as if he'd been struck, and for a moment, Jon's gaze flickered away from Sansa to Lord Stark, looking, all of a sudden, as if he was very very young. But then his shoulders tensed, and his neck bowed, looking so broken down that Sansa wanted to _scream_ in outrage. "As you wish, my lord," he replied softly, and Sansa wrenched herself away from Lady Stark, stumbling over the floor to him, slipping her hand through his. 

Jon tensed, looking up at her with wide, fearful eyes, and her heart thumped an uncomfortable extra beat in her chest, as she tugged him closer the way she might have with Bran or Rickon, folding him into her arms, letting him bury his face in the curve of her neck, molding her body to his, and feeling full and heavy, an aching sweetness gathering in her breast. 

She tangled her fingers in his curls, raking her nails down his scalp and when Jon shuddered as if he would break, Sansa blinked away her tears. 

"Go," she whispered softly, tightening her arms around Jon so he would know the words weren't for him. "I need you all to go."

"Sansa," Lady Catelyn started to say, "you don't have to-"

"I _want_ to," she snapped back, and felt Jon's hands sweep once, twice, down her spine, leaving blazing trails of fire where they touched. Her eyes fluttered shut, the place between her legs _throbbing,_ clenching on air, and a low soft sound of discontent rumbled from his chest, his breaths falling quicker, sharper against her neck, cupping her arse, slowly grinding his hardness against her. 

"Go," she whispered one last time, and Jon pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss at her throat, raking the spot with his teeth before soothing it away with a rasp of his tongue, making her gasp, softly, dropping her forehead to his hard support of his shoulder. 

There was a soft rustle of fabric, and the click of the door, and then, finally, finally they were alone. Sansa lifted her head up to face him, and saw a dark flush rise across his cheekbones, the faint rim of grey circle his dark, molten eyes. She shivered, just a little, a draft from beneath the door making its way through her gossamer thin shift, and watched as a dark, hungry smile unfurled on his lips, a blinding flash a white teeth, and the promise of something... something impossible. 

* * *

 

"Brandon Stark's son," Theon repeats, incredulously. 

"Aye."

"Your _uncle_ Brandon Stark," he says, staring at Robb's profile from across the table, resting the point of his dagger on the wood with a finger on the hilt, gape-jawed in confusion. 

Robb levels a speaking glare at him before turning away once again. 

"Then why- Why did Lord Stark say Jon was-"

"Apparently," Robb snaps, with a vicious eagerness, "he didn't want whores crawling out of the woodwork claiming Uncle Brandon had married them before they had Jon, and push me out of my claim on Winterfell."

"Seven _hells..._ What really happened to his mum?"

"Died, s'far as his Lordship knows," Robb mutters. "Birthing fever."

"Ah."

Robb stares at him, narrow eyed and practically vibrating out of his seat in tense, tightly leashed resentment. _"'Ah'?_ That's all you have to say?" 

Theon shrugs, familiar mischief lighting up his eyes. Theon had trouble taking  _anything_ seriously. "Does Jon know?" he asks slyly, and the question almost pulls a smile from the young lord, before Robb replies, "No. Not yet."

* * *

Maester Luwin saves the third scroll for last. It is a rare enough thing to receive a raven from the capital, and only after he has perused the missive from his counterpart at the Wall - Castle Black has suffered a desertion, and the fugitive was last seen heading straight south, towards Winterfell - and a hurriedly scrawled note from the Riverlands - Lord Hoster Tully's health was on the mend - that he cracks the black seal bearing the sigil of House Baratheon. 

Pycelle's hand is shakier now, showing his age, but his writing still bears the graceful slant they both learned at the Citadel, and it makes Luwin smile faintly before he takes in the words.

And then he reads the message again.  
And again.  
And again. 

His hands quake violently, and his skin has gone grey, heart hammering in his chest as he kicks back his stool, ignoring it when it crashes to the ground and throwing open the rookery's door, setting off the Ravens into an agitated squawking. 

But Luwin, dashing across the courtyard and towards the main keep, barely hears any of it, letting his aging legs carry him to Lord Stark's solar as fast as they can. 

* * *

 

_"...Jon Arryn, Hand to the King, Warden of the East and Lord of the Vale, is with us no more. A fever took him in the late hours of the seven-and-tenth day of this twelfth moon. We were unable to discern the nature of the fever. Milk of the poppy was administered to his lordship and by the grace of the Mother, his passing was peaceful._

_At the moment of writing, I am well-pleased to say, preparations are well underway to convey the King, the Queen, the heir and other members of the royal family to Winterfell. They arrive within the turn of the moon."_

* * *

 

It was as if something shifted in their solitude, a change in his skin, in the colour of his eyes, the shape of his smile, and Sansa had the sudden, shiver-inducing sensation of being held by a complete stranger.  

"Jon?" she asked, tentative and a little fearful, and his hands tightened around her, sending bolts of pleasure-pain that seemed to wind her tighter, make her breath shorten and her womb quicken. 

His voice was hoarse, a scrape of worn gravel, when he asked, "Did you mean it? What you said to- To Lady Stark?"

Sansa nodded, eyes huge, hands sliding up his hard, vaulted chest, cupping his face, tracing the curve of his cheekbones with a sweep of her thumbs. "Yes," she whispered, into the silence of the room. " _Yes,_ I meant every w-"

And his mouth slanted over hers, with a deep, shuddering groan, hungry and voracious, his tongue slipping against hers in sleek, heated desperation. His hands curled around the back of her head, pulling and tugging until Sansa had exposed the vulnerable curve of her throat, his mouth moving where her pulse thrummed, hummingbird-quick, fastening his teeth over the fragile skin until a sharp cry rose from her throat. His cock was steel against her belly, his hands roving over the lines of her back, her arse, cupping and squeezing with rampant, hungry abandon. 

 _"Bed,"_ she pleaded, as a hand covered the linen over her breast, palming her nipple and making her cunt clamp viciously on nothing again. "Jon, please, _please,_ the _bed,_ I need you to-"

And the world lurched away from beneath her as Jon swept her off her feet, depositing her with little flair on the edge of the mattress, where she landed with a muffled _thump_.

She watched, wide-eyed, as he tugged off his boots, tossing them across the room with unrestrained violence, before repeating the motions with his jerkin and tunic, revealing the smooth, hard contours of his body, rippling with honed muscle in the dimming firelight. His eyes traced her body with unconcealed appreciation, making her shiver and fight the urge to hide away from his gaze, before meeting her eyes and snapping, _"Off."_

Sansa blinked, tearing her eyes away from where his fingers were struggling with laces at his breeches, his- his _cock_ straining at the seams. 

"What?" she asked, shocked at how her voice sounded, high and roughened, as if it belonged to someone else. 

"Take your clothes off, sweetheart," he rasped in his awful, dark, midnight voice, making her heart miss a beat, and send lava flooding through her veins. Before she had realized it, she had risen up just enough, rucked up the hem of her shift to her hips, pulling it over her head in a hasty, clumsy motion that made her cheeks flush dull red. But Jon didn't seem to mind at all, his eyes fastened on her breasts, nipples puckered in the sudden cold, and the thatch of springy red curls between her legs. 

"My gods," he muttered, reverently, breeches forgotten as he sank onto the mattress beside her, almost as if he didn't dare to touch. "Look at you."

Sansa swallowed, hard, unsure of herself, hands fisting in the bedlinens in tense anticipation. What if he didn't... What if he was disappointed? What if he didn't think she was-

He raised a trembling hand to her breast, gently rolling the tightened aureole between his fingers, and Sansa gasped at the heat of it, lightning crackling all through her body as her spine arched off the bed to chase his touch. He breathed in sharply. 

Hoarsely, sounding faint with astonishment, "You... You liked that?"

 _"Yes,"_ she moaned, and Jon seemed to quake with muted want. 

"Seven fucking-" he bit off, before curling his body over hers and taking her mouth again, in soft, heated mating, tracing the shape of her full lower lip with his tongue until she gasped out loud into his mouth.

"Yes..." came the encouraging hiss, his hand cupping the side of her face, the other hand sliding restlessly down her side, palming the voluptuous curves of her body, sweat-slick and trembling. _"Open_ for me, little love, open..."

She tore away from him, gasping for breath, but Jon simply shifted downwards, hot, open-mouthed kisses down her neck, tugging her earlobe between his teeth. Lower still, as she trembled, eyes squeezed shut and tears trickling down to her hairline, her limbs feeling weighed down, thick and heavy with fatigue and unassuaged lust. Latching onto her nipple, drawing in the taut flesh into the burning, slick cavern of his mouth, lashing her skin with the velvety rasp of his tongue, until she was clutching his head to her breast, moaning and crying out loud, incoherently begging. 

"Don't stop, _don't stop,_ please _please_ \- Oh!" she heard herself cry out, hips rocking up to meet the barrier of his breeches, leaving smears of dark wetness against the cloth. 

But Jon tugged free with a gentle bite that rocketed a blaze of sensation downwards, peppering feather-light kisses down her sternum and her belly, and it was only then that Sansa realized what he meant to do. Gasping, she slapped her hands over herself, and stared in mute horror at Jon who slanted her a look that was part smirk and part hunger. 

He stroked the backs of her fingers with deliberate ease, murmuring, "You shouldn't do that, sweetling..." He dropped his mouth to the insides of her thighs, forcing them apart even though she'd begun to struggle. "I have _hours_ with you," he whispered against her skin, tracing the shape of her knees with his clever, calloused hands, licking away at the wetness coating her thighs, dark curls falling into dark eyes. 

"Hours... _Days..."_ he promised, a heady note of menace filtering in, as his mouth charted a burning trail steadily north. "I'm going to make you _beg_ for it; I'm going to make you _scream_ on my knot, little love..." His hands were deceptively gentle as they parted her fingers and then the slick-hot folds of her cunt, and Sansa _trembled,_ shuddered, before she gave in with a sigh, to his voice and his hands and all his promises.

"Let me fuck you..." he said, nosing gently at the auburn curls, scenting her in deep lungfuls, his hands clamping down around her hips as if to hold her down.

"Let me love you..."

* * *

 

"I've been thinking about what you said."

"You have?" Ned asks his wife warily. 

"Yes," Catelyn replies, so light and casual that Ned nearly stops breathing. She runs her comb through her long, auburn tresses once more, meditative, seemingly calm. 

He is not fooled. 

"You broke my heart, you know, when you came back from the war, and brought that boy with you." This is delivered in a matter-of-fact tone, no censure or hatred in her words. Her eyes stay fixed on the mirror before her; his eyes stay fixed on her. 

"I know, Cat," Ned replies, hoarse with grief. "I'm sorry, you know I-"

But Catelyn waves off his apology with a flick of her hand, and continues, "But we barely knew each other, despite Robb, and when you lied to me about Jon being yours, I had no reason not to believe you."

Ned stills, everything about him turning cold, crystal-hard, still as a lake in the heart of winter.  
She turns to him, her hair unbound and rippling down her face, her eyes blue chips of burning cold ice. 

"Do you think I do not see when you lie to me now?" His heart is beating so fast he can barely hear his wife, as a distant, terrible memory swamps him, consumes him whole. 

_Promise me, Ned._  
_Promise me._

"He is not yours," she says, her words landing like blows, a battering ram against the secrets he's held for so long. "Not Brandon's. If he was your father's too, Sansa would have not taken him as her alpha. He cannot be Benjen's - you brought him from the South and he spent the whole war ranging north of the Wall."

She steps closer, and still, _still,_ her eyes, her voice, they do not waver. She may be a Stark only by name, but there is ice in her veins all the same. The Lady of Winterfell - the lady of Winter. "Tell me Ned, and know if you lie again, I will never, _never_ forgive you. 

_"Who is Jon Snow?"_

* * *

 

Jon licks, a long, slow stripe between her parted folds and her hips jerk violently, before he clamps an arm over her belly, pushing her down and sucking the little nub into his mouth. 

Sansa _screams_. 

Her thighs tremble, and Jon sinks his mouth deeper against her, satin-soft and molten, leaves kisses along the slit that make her shake, before working her open; her taste salty and bitter like the sea, sweet in the back of his throat, his hips rutting gracelessly against the feather tick of her mattress. 

There's words falling from her bitten-red lips, _pleas_ and _yeses_ and _ohs_ , words that coil him tighter, make him _desperate_ for her. 

His mouth is smeared with wetness when he pauses to breathe, and her pretty, elegant hand _snaps_ forward, burying in his hair and dragging him to her cunt, crying, "No, no, _no,_ you _can't_ stop, you _can't, Jon-"_  

He almost laughs but for the way his body aches to be buried inside her, deep inside her hot cunt, forever until he has forgotten himself, forgotten his world, his name. 

The sound of her cries fractures something inside him, and he slides up her soft,'pretty body, kissing the corner of her mouth, hand between her thighs, rubbing her slick little clit, wet and throbbing, her hips twitching and shifting beneath his.

"What do you want?" The words, he whispers against her lips, smearing them with her slick, leaving them soft and beestung, gleaming in the darkness. "Tell me-"

 _"You,"_ she gasps, tears trickling from her closed eyes, "I want you, you, _you-"_

He sinks a finger past the tight ting of muscle, so fucking hot around him, so soft and lush and tight, clenching down on the digit as if she wants to _suck_ him in deeper. Sansa's mouth falls open, her cheeks as fiery red as her hair, sweat on pink skin. He feeds it to her slowly, just enough to drive them both mad... One finger, then two, then three, and she takes it all, gasping and clenching so _perfectly_ around him...

There's nothing left to her except this now, the feeling of her alpha draped over her empty, desperate body, the feeling of his mouth ghosting up her jaw, licking away her tears with a sickening hunger, the feeling of his fingers filling her up, only him, there's only him. Mindless little grunts escape her mouth and Jon swallows them up. 

"More," she whispers finally, when he's four fingers deep, her voice hoarse and low. "More, alpha, please... _More..."_

He hisses softly, withdrawing, before spreading her thighs wider, sinking in between, positioning himself at her hot, slick entrance. "Here?" he asks again, so gentle it makes her head spin dizzily. "You need me here, love?"

She nods, jerky, beyond words, but when he pushes through, it's he who loses coherence, groaning and dropping to his elbows, his head cushioned at her breast, as she digs her nails deeper into the bedspread, hips tilting off the mattress to take him closer. 

He sinks in, slow, delirious moments that stretch and tangle like strands of honey, golden and sun-brightened, everything narrowing to the single point where her body closes in around his cock. 

"Sansa," Jon whispers, shaken to his core. _"Sansa..."_ as he begins to withdraw, setting a slow, sharp rhythm, smoothing dark strands of scarlet hair away from her forehead, pressing reverent kisses to her eyelids, to her cheek, to her slackened lips. 

The rhythm grows around them like a living thing, taking wing and pulsing fever-hot, drawing them closer and cinching them tighter, a noose of desire and heat and ecstasy. Jon's arm slips under her waist, and the new angle makes her eyes flutter open, the blue of her eyes eclipsed, and she whispers, "Jon," as if she could break and sob and fly all at once, making his hips snap and her eyes roll back, clasping his cock in a fiery blaze of pleasure. He drives quicker then, harder, pushing her thigh back, until it's flush with her sternum, kneeling on the bedspread, thrusting with a savagery that has him sloe-eyed in acute, blinding desire. 

She cries out, knife-sweet in her agony, and his knot slips past the rim of her grasping, weeping cunt, taking him in hungrily as they lose themselves to bone-shaking pleasure, coming deep inside her in long, shuddering pulses, tied together. For now. 

For good. 

When she opens her eyes, he has pulled back, just enough to meet her gaze, and there's something in the way he stares at her, blinking rapidly when he shifts and the movement sends shattered pulses of pleasure coursing through them both. 

"My _gods,"_ he mutters for the second time that night. And Sansa realizes, with a muted shock - he looks... _afraid._  

* * *

 

_"The truth of Jon's parentage cannot go beyond these walls," Ned began, while Catelyn listened in tense, unbroken silence. The fire in her bedchamber crackled softly, and Ned paused before continuing, "There would be grave repercussions for this family if it did."_


	4. Chapter 4

His knot is heavy inside her, pulsing and hot. There's a sense of fullness so deep Sansa doesn't know how she has survived without it till now, so rooted and thick she can feel it wash to her _fingertips_ , in the space behind her heart, at the back of her throat _._

"Hang on," Jon mutters, voice roughened with exhaustion, before slipping his arms beneath her and flipping them over, so that she's draped over him, his cock still buried in her. the movement makes them both gasp, makes him tremble with a suppressed groan, bright sparks dancing behind her eyelids, as she clamps down helplessly against his knot, fat and hard and buried so _deep-_

"Fuck," he's muttering, hips hitching off the mattress in jolted shocks, eyes screwed up something like he's in _pain,_ like it _hurts,_ and Sansa scrabbles helplessly against his chest, responding to his need with a fresh surge of slick, bucking against him. 

"Okay," he mutters darkly, "okay here," and he slips a hand between their bodies, his clever, blunt fingers finding that spot, where her pleasure throbs and aches, circling and rubbing, while she pants heavily against his clavicle, sucking hard, despearate kisses into his skin, needing the taste of him in her mouth, in her blood, needs him like- like _air_ \- like breathing-

Her climax breaks over in a series of stuttered, half-formed gasps, and he rubs wet, come-slick fingers down her back, heedless, hushing her like a babe, even with her cunt clamping around his knot, and says, "Sleep, sleep," his voice hoarse and sweet.

"I'll be here when you wake up."

* * *

"Your skin is like silk," Jon murmurs softly, later, much later, after she wakes and they've separated, and they've both managed to catch their breaths. 

Sansa's hands, drifting idly over the furs, pause, her body damp with perspiration and cooling quickly, languid honey pulsing in her blood, turning the world soft-edged, lit with warmth. 

"Have I mentioned that?" he asks, just as quietly, as he turns up on an elbow, the fingers of his free hand lightly tracing the arch of her brow, the curve of her ear, the soft fullness of her bottom lip. 

"No," Sansa whispers, eyes fluttering closed under his delicate, feather-light investigation, feeling a second heartbeat come to life beneath his touch, thrumming and pulsing, sending little frissons of electricity to her cunt, making her thighs press together even as she cats into his touch, greedy for him. 

"Shame," he replies, brushing a kiss to the bruises he's littered down her neck. They bloom beneath her skin like purple flowers, and where his lips trace the marks, she throbs with heat, gritting her teeth against a burgeoning gasp. "The softest skin," he murmurs against the hard line of her collarbone. "I could touch you all day." 

"Just touch?" Sansa teases breathlessly, as he covers her more fully, his cock hardening against the hollow of her hip, leaking at the tip, the scent of him so dark and heavy Sansa can taste it on her tongue. 

"Kiss," Jon counters, brushing his lips against hers. "Taste," he says, before his hand parts her folds, sinking two fingers deep with embarrassing ease. Oh gods, that feels... that feels... perfect. Her hips arch off the bed, hands gripping the small of his back, following him as he retreats. Again, his fingers fuck into her, and again, until Sansa has her thighs spread wide, bucking into his hands, whimpering, begging, her hands tugging at her own scalp, pinching her nipples, clutching at the sheets. 

And then he stops. 

"No!" she cries out, but Jon thumbs past her mouth, a feral brightness to his eyes, and presses his wet, gleaming fingers against the lush give of her lips. His smile is hungry, feral, his eyes glittering with a soft kind of cruelty. 

"Suck, sweetling," he murmurs. He kneels between her legs, hefting her hips up with an arm beneath her waist, resting the soft curve of her ass against his knees, his cock at her cunt, slick and come dripping out of her ravaged hole and onto the mattress below. Sansa writhes against him, almost afraid of the look in his eye, but aching for him, becoming sick with mindlessness again. 

"Lick me clean," he whispers, dropping a gentle kiss to her temple, "and I'll fuck you again. How does that sound, little love?"

Sansa whimpers, and her nipples harden in response to his words, her whole body tightening in anticipation. There's a part of her screaming - _don't, don't,_ _don't._

 _You're Sansa Stark of Winterfell, daughter to the Warden of the North; your family controls a kingdom older than_ dragons _, your father commands one of the greatest armies of the realm._

 _You don't bow to a boy like_ him _. You don't take commands from_ bastards!

But then Jon _ruts_ against her, his cock brushing her throbbing clit, and Sansa _keens_ , wrapping her hand around his wrist and curling her tongue around his fingers, wretched, obscene, the bitter-hot taste of them saturating her mouth, and Jon groans, "Sansa, love, _fucking hells,"_ all awe and desperation, driving his cock deep inside her in a single thrust, and something about his wide eyes and the way he trembles above her - something about it feels like victory. 

* * *

"Jon..."

Her voice drifts on the mist rising from the surface of the bathwater, as soft as the faint, lingering perfume of lavender that haunts the air. 

"Aye?" His answer is soft too, loathe as he is to break the peace that has enveloped them both. The weight of her body is perfect against his, and when his hand drifts lower down her belly, Sansa drops her head back onto his shoulder, wet hair turning the deep, rich shade of blood, draped across pink, flushed skin. 

"What did-" She inhales sharply, and laces her fingers through his, trapping his hands at the base of her sternum, where her heartbeat pounds beneath warm, slick skin. Her eyes flutter open, and meet his, and Jon stills. 

"What did Father say? How is this- How are _we_ possible?"

Jon swallows. It's time for this talk then. Gods damn it, he thought he had _time_ before this came. 

"He says," Jon begins hoarsely, "that he lied. That I'm not his son." Sansa gasps, and her fingers tighten around his, the erratic thump of her heart grounding them together. "We're cousins, as it turns out."

Sansa is quiet for long, agonizing moments and Jon suppresses urge to beg her to _say_ _something, damn you,_ focusing on the slow, easy rise and fall of her chest, the scent of her, sweet and clean, bright as a summer sun, helplessly nosing at the patch of skin just behind her ear, when the skin is thin, fragile, soft tendrils of hair brushing his skin. 

"Who is- Did he mention who your father really was?"

Jon shakes his head. "Wasn't any time," he mumbles, tongue darting out to taste her skin, cupping her breast in his palms, smoothing a finger over her tight, hard nipple, pressing open mouthed kisses to her neck and feeling her arch like a cat in his arms, the soft, rounded weight of arse against his hardening cock. 

Sansa hums. "Well, it must've been Uncle Benjen," she mumbles and Jon stiffens again. 

"What?" he bites out. 

Sansa whines, rubbing her arse hungrily against his cock, making him buck, water sloshing over the sides and blood pound in his ears. "Don't _stop_ ," she begs, and Jon sinks his teeth into the taut line of her neck, just enough to hurt, not enough to break skin, Lord Stark's threat ringing in his ears. 

"Tell me what you _mean_ ," he snarls and she subsides instantaneously, like a marionette that has had her strings cut. 

"Uncle Benjen," she begins, hesitantly, "If he had a- if he had you, that would mean-"

"-that he broke his vows," Jon completes softly, and Sansa nods, pulling away from him, her shoulders hunched forward, drawing up her knees to her chest. He kisses her dewy, glistening shoulder, and she falls back into the warm clasp of his arms. "He'd be put to death," Jon continues, in that flat, detached tone. 

Sansa hums discontentedly. "Yes," she whispers. "Father would- he would protect him, wouldn't he?"

There is a weighted, terrible pause. 

"No," Jon replies finally, into the cold, unforgiving silence that has overtaken the room. "He wouldn't."

* * *

"When Lord Stark returned from the war-"

"-With you," Sansa adds, and runs her hands down his thighs, the hair silk-soft in the cooling bathwater, and Jon nods in assent.

"When he returned to Riverrun, with me," he punctuates this by tilting her chin to the side, and kissing her, closed-mouthed and sweet, rolling a peaked nipple between his fingers and smiling when she gasps. 

"He came from the South, San," he murmurs against her open mouth. "After putting down the last of the crown's loyalists... If Uncle Benjen had fathered me at all..."

"You'd be in Moletown," she finishes breathlessly, straining for composure. But the warmth in her veins is building up again, and Sansa doesn't know how long... How long she can hold off. "Or, well, Father wouldn't have called you a Stark at the word of some commonborn woman." She turns to him, frowning. "But you don't understand... It _can't_ have been Uncle Brandon."

His hand is drifting southwards once more, and Sansa's breath catches in her throat. "Whyever not?"

"Well... Because, if you were Uncle Brandon's all along..." She twisted around to look at him, all tousled hair and flushed cheeks and kiss-bitten lips. His eyes are dark, pagan with heat, hooded with unspent desire, his erection digging against the small of her back and her cunt spasms with painful want. Begging him with her to understand with her eyes, she whispers, "If you were Uncle Brandon's, why would Father _lie_?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been a while, huh. *hides*

**Author's Note:**

> I've realized there's some confusion about the 'mate my daughter and I'll rip your face off' thing because I'M A BAD WRITER SORRY but here's a brief explainer from [Alphas, Betas, Omegas: A Primer](https://archiveofourown.org/works/403644) by _norabombay_ :
> 
> " **Pair Bonding:** At the simplest level it is the equivalent of marriage for an omegaverse pair. Usually seen only with alpha/omega pairings, but it also shows up with alpha/alpha pairings on occasion. Nobody seems to care if betas pair bond or not. Pair bonding has several flavors. It can be done with a ceremony similar to marriage. It can be the result of sex alone. The sex might have to be during heat. **Or the sex might require one partner (usually the alpha) to bite the other, breaking the skin.** Pair bonding is mostly consensual. Depending on the universe, the pair bond can occur in a less consensual than usual even for the omegaverse way. An omega (but oddly not an alpha) can be forced into a bond."


End file.
